


on broken keys, a symphony of us

by karasunotsubasa



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blindness, M/M, Pianist Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 23:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17713859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karasunotsubasa/pseuds/karasunotsubasa
Summary: The fall damaged his eyes, the doctor says.There is a surgery, but the success rate is low, he says.Even if it succeeds, there is no guarantee that his sight will return to how it was before, he says.And Victor knows what it means. Yakov – who sits by his side through all of it, despite it being days since Victor's been admitted – knows it, too."It's the end, then."





	on broken keys, a symphony of us

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to post thing like... last year, I believe. and when I say last year, I mean like last march orz but life got in the way of things so it's hella late, but IT'S HERE!! and I hope you still enjoy it guys ❤️
> 
> for [exitgarden](https://twitter.com/JardimEscondido) bc this was supposed to be the fic for the prompt for one of those writing memes tycuivubjn I'm sorry it's so late /)u(\

 

 

 

His is not a sad story.

When during his senior debut at barely sixteen Victor suffers from a nasty fall and hits his head hard on the ice, he doesn't think much of it: falls happen. In fact, he doesn't think much at all – he loses consciousness, and only wakes up in the hospital hours later. There's something wrapped around his head, of course, and it wraps tightly around his eyes. It's more than fine with him then, but the moment the wrapping is undone by a nurse it's no longer fine.

_It's dark._

As far as wake up calls go, this one is both effective and not, all at once.

The fall damaged his eyes, the doctor says.

There is a surgery, but the success rate is low, he says.

Even if it succeeds, there is no guarantee that his sight will return to how it was before, he says.

And Victor knows what it means. Yakov – who sits by his side through all of it, despite it being days since Victor's been admitted – knows it, too.

"It's the end, then."

Yakov slumps in the metal chair next to Victor's bed, heavy and tired, and his words sound like the sentence Victor knows they are: he's done. It's over. Victor Nikiforov, the Junior World Champion, the skater everyone looked forward to seeing take on the world... he's dead.

Victor wants to scream.

The news of his retirement is a hot topic among media, but Victor doesn't notice. He cares. Oh, _he does_. But he doesn't see it: doesn't follow social media, doesn't text friends, doesn't look at the videos of his fall that YouTube is full of, with varying commentary from people who know him, people who don't, people he'd never even heard of in his life.

He doesn't see it. He doesn't see _any of it_.

He can't _see_ it, after all.

It brings hysterical laughter out of him every time the thought returns to haunt him in the dark, be it day or night, it's always dark these days. And he laughs, and laughs, and cries as he laughs. He's left alone within that darkness and he closes himself off from the world even further. He buries Victor Nikiforov in the tiny apartment Yakov rented out for him last year and, there, he sits in the complete dark, because what difference does it make when he can't see the light anyway? He might as well save some money on the bills, since who knows when he'll be able to earn a living again.

Yakov checks up on him as if he's a child and it makes Victor's soul boil. It makes him want to rake his nails over his arms until they're slippery with blood, and he does so, only to be chided by Yakov's stern voice that sounds even more grating when Victor can't see the little wrinkles of worry around his eyes. He's angry, he's mad, he wants to go back, to fix things, to _see_... but he can't.

"You aren't dead! Stop acting like your life is over and get a grip, you stupid boy," Yakov barks at him after Victor almost stabs himself in the neck with the scissors he used to chop off his hair. There are stinging cuts on his nape, but it hurts less than the open chasm in his chest: empty, hungry and ever growing.

"Isn't it?" Victor hisses, hands clenched into fists so tight that his nails break the skin. He barely feels it. "Who am I without skating, Yasha? _Who am I?_ What can I _do_? How will I earn a living? You can't support me forever and you know it!"

When Yakov doesn't answer, Victor knows why: he's nothing now. He's less than human. He's only a burden, only a deadweight that Yakov has no need to carry any longer.

Victor hates it. He hates himself, his powerlessness, his disability. _He hates it_.

"Leave me," Victor tells him, and when Yakov doesn't, he screams: "Get out, get out! Get out of my life, I don't want your pity! I don't want you here at all! You're not my father, so go! Leave! I don't need you!"

It's harder after that. Every day is a little bit worse than the one before and by the end of the month Victor loses track of time, loses will to eat, to breathe, to move... to live.

Despite it all, Yakov shakes him awake from the torpid mutterings that spill from Victor's lips.

"I can’t– I won’t– Just let me die, Yasha, please... End this suffering..."

He snaps at Victor, like he'd done so many times before: "End it yourself, then! If you want to feel better, then feel better! _Move_. You're young! You can still learn to live with this, Vitya! Don't waste away like this! The stubborn boy I've trained all these years would never give up from such a silly thing, so don't you dare make me think of you less. You're better than this."

Victor doesn't think he can do anything about it, but when Yakov brings a stranger with him one afternoon, a gentle-voiced man who takes Victor's hand and guides it forward until his fingers brush against something soft and warm... something that wiggles when he touches it... Victor's breath stops in his throat.

" _What_ –"

"A service dog," Yakov says.

Victor has always loved dogs. He was never allowed to have one. Could never afford to have one, not with his busy schedule. Yakov's voice is no less stern than it was all those times before when he spoke to him, but Victor's hand is still petting the small side of what seems to be a puppy, and it's warm. It's... it's...

"If you have someone depending on you, maybe you'll think twice about what you're doing to yourself."

Victor swallows through the lump in his throat. He opens his mouth to speak, but just as he is blind, it almost seems that he has gone mute now as well.

He gathers the little creature into his arms and brings it up against his chest, where he buries his face in the soft fur. He has no idea what breed it is, if it's a puppy or just a miniature, but when the dog presses its tiny nose into Victor's cheek, he decides that it doesn't really matter to him anyway. His useless eyes water, he can feel the tears on his cheeks, and he lets them fall freely.

It helps.

Makkachin becomes his light, his guide, his reason to get out of bed in the morning. She sleeps with him at night, walks by his leg when they're out, picks the things he clumsily drops when he needs them. She sits by his leg at the dining table, but she never begs for scraps. When they enter the bus, sometimes, she finds the closest free seat and rests her head on it until Victor sits, and then rests her head on his lap, attentive and sweet.

She makes Victor cry at times, too. He's so happy to have her that the feelings just rise up in him and tears are the only way he knows how to release them. But more than that, she makes him smile. After the accident he didn't believe it was still possible, yet slowly she teaches him the joy, the happiness, the comfort of living all over again.

There's a lot Victor needs to learn before he can truly be himself, though. He practices writing and reading in Braille, which is hard and demanding, and his mind swims with numbers and letters when he falls asleep at night, but that's alright – it keeps him from wallowing in self-pity. There are days when he's so busy that he forgets he's supposed to be hurting, and those days fill him with hope. The progress he makes is slow and hard fought for, and it takes him a good portion of the next year to find his way around, but he does.

"You could still choreograph," Yakov tells him during their weekly dinners that now feel less like check-ins or therapy meetings and more like they should: like fostering friendship, like life and love. "You don't have to see to be able to move your body."

But the thought of coming back to skating, to the thing that robbed Victor of everything he could've been and everything he had worked so hard for is still too much.

He shakes his head at that and Yakov doesn't press.

"Lilia mentioned composing," Yakov says next time. "We have that old piano in the sitting room, you remember?" When Victor nods, he continues: "Personally, I think she just wants to rid herself of the damn thing and get a new one, but she asked me to offer it to you first, God knows why."

"I'm sure she was very kind about it, too," Victor replies as the corners of his mouth curl in slight amusement. Yakov's only comment is a snort, and it's just as well, since Victor goes on: "I've never considered it. What do I know about music? Only what little I needed to pick the best sound for my own programs, which is less than the bare minimum."

"You could always learn," Yakov reminds, like he did over and over again, ever since Victor's accident. "Come over for dinner on Sunday, check out the piano, see if you like it. If not, it's no loss to either of us. What harm is there in trying?"

And because Yakov's advice has not failed him yet, Victor nods his head, and tries.

The piano is moved into his small flat, takes up the entire space by the window, and gathers dust for days on end, but sometimes Victor sits on the little stool and puts his fingers on the keys. He can't play like all the pianists do, he doesn't know how. The sounds that come from under his hands are broken, but it's alright – he's broken, too. He strikes up a melody, something silly like the beginning of the Harry Potter theme or the Twinkle Twinkle Little Star that always make him laugh at how bad he is at it when he misses a key and the piano makes a terrible, loud sound that echoes to the very core of Victor's soul.

Makkachin likes it, though. She rests her head on the leg Victor doesn't use on the pedals below and gives a soft boof every time he stops playing.

So he keeps playing.

And he keeps getting better.

It's only natural, since that's all he has to do for long days, weeks, months... And two years after his accident Victor can say he knows how to play. He can't do it like the others, can't play from sheet music, can't tell which key is what sound.

He just plays.

There's music in his head, there's sound in his veins, and he plays what he knows – the darkness, the despair, but also the hope and the sweetness, and the warmth of the lazy heartbeat against his thigh when Makkachin rests in his lap after dinner.

"I'm sorry," little Mila, who is no longer so little, says one day out of the blue. Yakov brings her over and before Victor can ask what's the reason for their visit, Yakov barks at her to "Go on," and on Mila goes: "I didn't mean anything bad by it, I promise, Vitya! You just play so pretty, and I'm so happy for you, you've come such a long way! I just... I just wanted everyone else to see it, too."

"What did you do?" Victor asks, but there is no dread in him. No fear. It's... he feels fine? "I'm not angry, Milochka. Just tell me what happened, mm?"

"I," Mila swallows, and takes Victor's hand. He squeezes it, reassuring, while she takes a deep breath, and says: "I took a video of you. Last week. You know, when you played for us? And I– I posted it online. I'm so sorry, Vitya, I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I just–"

He holds up his free hand and she pauses. He smiles a little.

"It's alright," he says. "I said I'm not angry, remember? You did nothing wrong, but if you want to take any more videos in the future, please let me know beforehand, okay? So I can at least put on some better clothes and do my hair."

"Yes, of course!" she promises, and Victor squeezes her hand again.

"Then all is fine," he deems, and it comes as a surprise to him that he truly means that. He's fine. "Do I even want to know how many views it has?"

Both Mila and Yakov are silent for a moment before Mila reveals: "Seventy thousand... and still going."

"Oh," is all Victor can say then, and "Oh," is all he can say two months after that, when the snow wraps the world in cold, white arms, and he gets a call from Yakov asking him to compose a piece of music for one of the skaters.

Victor tries... and fails at it spectacularly. He remembers what the skating music should sound like, but what's in his head reminds him more of a wake than the melodious click of blades on the ice.

His second try goes better, but it still isn't it. He scraps a piece after piece until his recorder heats up from overwork. It takes him almost until August to put together something he is so-so happy with, and by that time it's too late to use for the season – it isn't too late to use as an exhibition piece, though.

"...And now, at last, we have Yuuri Katsuki of Japan, the current Junior World Champion skating to the centre-ice," the commentator says, and even though Victor can't see the boy, he knows he'll be the one to skate to his song.

Yakov didn't give Victor the name of the skater, but everyone else had already finished their programs and only this Yuuri Katsuki was left. Yakov mentioned he was a medallist, but Victor would not have expected him to be the champion.

Suddenly, he feels more nervous than he's ever felt for any competition, because if this turns out awful, it'll be so in front of the entire international audience, and Victor... he wasn't exactly ready to face that kind of backlash. Not after the last time–

"After watching Katsuki's soulful performance in this competition, what do you think we can expect from him this time, Lev?"

"His exhibition music was created by... Well, that's a name you don't see every day! Guess who's it by, Anton?"

"Now you've got me curious. Who is it?"

"Victor Nikiforov, of all people!"

There's a gasp of surprise from the other commentator and Victor feels dread pool in his belly. Here it comes, he thinks...

"Victor Nikiforov, everyone, who was the 2004 Junior World Champion, and only a year later suffered a career-ending fall during his senior debut performance. Nikiforov has lost his eyesight due to the head injury from his unfortunate fall, but as we will all see in a moment he clearly hasn't lost his passion."

"Katsuki is just taking his starting position. Let's see it then!"

It's hard to breathe through his racing heart and tight with nerves throat. Victor knows he isn't the one competing, but he remembers the knot of worry well: that uncomfortable pressure that made him feel far heavier, as if gravity itself was trying to push him down.

When the music finally starts, he can hardly believe that it's him who created it, but it's unmistakably his piece. The commentators call out the jumps and spins and combinations, yet Victor almost doesn't hear any of it. His music is vibrant in a way that he couldn't play on his piano alone and the clap of the blades that he can hear from the speakers of his TV makes him only more certain – this boy, Yuuri Katsuki, is skating to the sound of Victor's soul as if it is his own.

Victor never takes notice of the tears that well up in his eyes, not until they roll down his cheeks and Makkachin presses against his side, whimpering in concern. Victor runs a trembling hand through her soft fur and takes a deep breath.

And then, he makes his decision.

"Yasha," he says when his former coach, his father in all but blood, picks up. "I want to do this."

And he does it. He sticks with it and plays.

Commissions flow in freely, so many that Victor doesn't know where to put his hands first, but he's excited to start. He gets a new piano, gets a new recording equipment, new apartment, new soundproof studio to work in. He gets the recognition that not even his skating has brought him, a fan base that transcends the couple hundred of fans he used to have.

In three years, Victor builds his own brand from the scratch, brings his name to the top, and Victor Nikiforov becomes a beacon of success as he should be. Even though he can't see the world from the place he's found himself in, he can hear it open its arms to him. It's an embrace full of relief and nostalgia, one that Victor slumps into without much thought.

But all that relief is only momentary, because with fame comes a new onslaught of darkness.

It's something Victor didn't expect, and he still doesn't expect to happen, yet fans touch him all of a sudden, disregarding any rules of proper conduct or personal distance. Paparazzi get in his face and snap pictures all they want, because Victor is blind to the flash of their cameras. Everything is loud, people shout his name and he has trouble withholding a wince every time someone recognizes him in the crowd.

It's sickening... but Victor smiles through it like he smiled through the interviews and impolite questions all those years before when he was still skating. He has to. It's expected. So he swallows his pain, his discomfort, his fears, and he carries on.

He pretends.

Makkachin and the music were there for him when he was at his lowest, but Victor knows that if he was asked to choose between the two, he'd pick Makkachin without a second's hesitation. It isn't only because of her company, or the fact that she's a living creature. It's because as much as he credits his mental recovery to music, every time that he sits at the piano he's brought back to the hard times he's spent so long battling against. It's a challenge to fight his way through the darkness every time, and after years... after years that gets tiring, too. The only thing that doesn't require him to be anything that he doesn't feel like being at the moment, the only thing that doesn't require him to be Victor Nikiforov is the little service dog that he'd groomed from a puppy, and who gives him love and care in the most selfless of ways.

With the deadline for his new piece falling on the New Years, Victor should be working on it hard, but it's his birthday today and he has all of _nothing_ done. The melody just doesn't want to come. Fragments of old arrangements hum softly to him in his dreams, but it isn't what he wants. Not what he needs. What Victor is searching for, always, is something fresh, something new that could make him forget himself for a moment. To drown in the music, bathe in it and rest; that's Victor's most fervent wish. 

He closes the lid on the keyboard with a little sigh and when Makkachin nudges his thigh with her nose, he rubs his hand behind her ears, already smiling.

"Should we go for a walk then?" he asks and the tiny boof she gives is the sweetest sound of affirmation.

So he puts on his shoes, his coat, his gloves, too, and calls her to him. When she comes, the collar and leash are already in her mouth. She hands them over to Victor, patiently waiting until he clips them on her, and then she leads him out. They take the already familiar path to the nearby park and it feels freeing to just follow Makkachin's path for a moment.

It's a warm evening for the middle of winter, Victor notes as they walk through the park gates. The air smells unpleasantly of melting snow and mud, but there's something refreshing about the incoming night air, so Victor lets his shoulders drop, lets Makka guide him, and tries to enjoy himself.

He takes off his gloves when the brisk pace gets him a bit too warm and puts them in his coat pocket, but clearly he doesn't notice when one of them falls out. He doesn't notice when someone picks his lost glove, either, but he does notice the urgent "Excuse me!" behind him.

"I think you dropped this," a sweet sounding voice says in stilted Russian. "Here."

Where is here, Victor wants to snide, but he only offers his hand palm up. He's too tired of always correcting people that 'here', 'there', or 'over that way' aren't good ways to give a blind person direction. During his silence the man places what seems to be Victor's glove in his hand, and Victor feels a tad guilty for his rude thoughts when all this kind stranger wanted was to return it to him.

"Thank you," he says, giving the man a smile.

He thinks that'll be it and is ready to turn away, but the man speaks up again.

"Are you... um, I'm sorry, this is probably rude to ask, but are you–"

There it is, Victor thinks as he swallows a disappointed sigh. He's heard this question so many times that he doesn't even need to hear the rest of it to know what's coming.

"Yes, I'm blind."

There's a moment of silence that usually follows the reveal, tense and awkward. It's the only fun Victor gets to have with his condition anyway, so he's learned to bask in it. Somehow, though, it ends sooner that he anticipates.

"Oh," the man says and he doesn't sound ashamed or chided, or awkward, or struggling, and Victor's honestly surprised. "No, I meant to ask... Are you Victor Nikiforov?"

_Ah._

Through the surprise that makes his heart thump a single beat out of alignment, Victor fixes on a smile.

"Are you a fan?"

"Yes! A big fan!"

Victor can hear the grin in the man's bright voice and his own smile eases into something more natural, more genuine. After all, who is he to begrudge someone their joy, even if he himself does no longer find any in his music?

"I was only a kid when I saw it for the first time, but your Lilac Fairy program is still one of my most vivid memories of figure skating," the man says, and once again Victor finds himself surprised out of his bitterness.

He didn't think... didn't consider...

"You're a fan of my skating?" he asks before he can think to stop the words from leaving his mouth.

"I'm so sorry," the man replies. "I know you're composing now – and you're amazing at it, too, don't get me wrong! – but your skating was... it–" He pauses then, lets his breath go as if he's embarrassed of how flustered he got. "It changed my life. I wouldn't be who I am now, if it wasn't for your skating. So, I guess what I'm so awkwardly trying to say is, um, thank you? For skating."

The glove is light in Victor's hand, smooth, but an unspoken weight at the same time. Victor doesn't know he stopped breathing until his lungs start to burn, and when he speaks his voice sounds hoarse, raw even to his own ears.

"What's your name?" he asks of the man who he can't know, but somehow feels connected to in a way he hasn't felt connected to anyone before.

"Ah, I'm sorry, I should've started with that. Where are my manners... I'm Yuuri," the man introduces himself. "Yuuri Katsuki."

And suddenly Victor remembers – the boy, the skater, the Junior World Champion, and the clip of the blades on the ice that took his first creation to the level of perfection.

"Yuuri," Victor breathes.

His heart is tight and his head is swimming, but it's not from fear, not from surprise. It's an emotion that Victor doesn't have any recollection of ever feeling. It's... it's _fresh_. _New._ Exciting, if he's being honest.

"You skated to my music," Victor finally says.

"I did, yes," Yuuri confirms. He sounds embarrassed again, and Victor finds it oddly charming. "I couldn't do it proper justice, though. I'm sorry."

But Victor only shakes his head.

"No, I'm sure you did. That song... it wasn't complete until you skated it. I watched your exhibition," He waves a hand, "or rather, I listened to it. You brought it to life, Yuuri, and for that I want to thank you." He smiles a little, a bittersweet smile just for himself. "I wish I could've seen you skate it, I'm sure it was quite the sight."

"I–" the sweet voice breaks, but new courage seems to push Yuuri through what he wants to say, because he continues without hesitation: "I could show you. I mean, skate it for– _with_ you."

And just as suddenly it comes, the confidence disappears without a trace, and Yuuri stutters.

"O-oh God, what, what am I saying? _I'm so sorry_ ," he apologizes again. "You probably don't want to talk about skating and I'm making you remember all those unpleasant things, I– I should just go. I'm _so_ sorry again."

He probably turns to walk away, Victor can't tell. But when he speaks, Yuuri seems as surprised as Victor himself feels for even considering the idea.

"How?" Victor asks. "How would you skate with me? I haven't... in years. _How?_ "

"I–" he hears Yuuri swallow. "Can I touch you?"

Victor nods, and waits. He's a little tense, but when Yuuri takes his hand and gently guides him through a few steps of what Victor imagines to be his choreography, he feels his body ease into it even if he can't really see where his feet fall. It's like his limbs still remember dancing, skating, moving... it's all still there, just waiting for him to tap into it again, and the remainder of it all is more painful than he ever thought it would be.

His breath gets stuck in his throat again, and it must show on his face, because Yuuri stops and lets go of him, apologies already spilling from his lips.

"I'm sorry, this was a bad idea. I know I shouldn't have said it, please forgive me. Do you, um, do you need me to get you something? Call someone?"

Victor shakes his head and reaches out his hand. Yuuri clutches it tight, while Makkachin nuzzles against Victor leg, and despite the near panic of thinking of putting the skates back on his feet and returning to the ice, Victor feels that if he lets go now, he'll lose something far more precious than just a chance to skate again.

So he holds Yuuri's hand, and asks:

"I don't think I can do it right now, probably no time soon, but... would you be willing to show me one day?"

And he can't be certain, he can't see it, but he thinks that Yuuri smiles, because his voice is warm and kind when he replies.

"I'd love to," Yuuri Katsuki says with true honesty that rings a tune in Victor's heart. "Any time you want, Victor."

 

 

***

 

 

Two years later, they take their wedding vows.

During the reception, as Yuuri dances Victor around the broad main floor during the up-tempo and cradles him close during the slow songs, always holding him like the most precious thing in the entire universe, Victor leans against him with a sigh, because now he's certain about this: his life isn't a sad story at all. It's a story of losing, and searching, and finding, and he's happy if this is how it ends.

Happily ever after.

"I still can't believe I'm married to someone as lovely as you," Yuuri murmurs into his ear while they gently sway in place to the string ballad the band is playing just for them. It's one of Victor's pieces that he'd composed in the early days of their relationship, and it fills his body with nostalgia and so much love that his chest feels close to bursting.

Victor ducks his head into the crook of Yuuri's neck to hide his smile and the little pink blush that he can tell heats his cheeks at Yuuri's words. His nose brushes lightly against Yuuri's jaw from the angle of his head. It's warm, and sweet, and open, and Victor knows that it's nothing but the truth when he says:

"I don't think anyone could ever be as lovely as you, my love."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> even tho it's an old fic, and a pretty heavy one, I still hope you enjoyed! thanks for reading ❤️


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